How Do People Move On?
by 221bSuperPotterWhoLocked
Summary: Doctor John Watson was a mess. He didn't eat. Nor did he sleep. When he did, he had violent nightmares. And all of this was happening because of one thing, or rather one man. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was dead, and he had left John behind. Will John ever be able to move on? T for suicidal thoughts and attempts.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone. This is my first fanfiction ever, so please feel free to tell me if you love it, hate it, or just feel like commenting on the story**.

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned. They belong to BBC, Steven Mottat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**Warning: This chapter contains suicide attempts. You have been warned.**

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Doctor John Watson was a mess. He hardly ever left his flat at 221b Baker Street. He didn't eat. Nor did he sleep. When he did, he had such violent nightmares that he woke up screaming. When this first started happening, Mrs. Hudson would come upstairs and try to comfort the poor doctor, but to no avail. Now she just tried to shut out his screams to keep herself from crying. He returned no one's calls or texts. He completely isolated himself from the rest of the world. And all of this was happening because of one thing, or rather one man. Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had jumped off the roof of St. Barts and killed himself in front of John. And just like that, he was gone. John was left alone. Sherlock had become John's life these past few months, though it seemed like so much longer. He had watched out for Sherlock, helped him on his cases, made sure he took care of himself, and had been his best friend. How does someone just move on from that? "How did people do it?" he had often wondered to himself. John didn't see how it was possible.

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Everyone was concerned for John. That concern only increased as time passed. He did not get any better, nor even attempt to try. He just kept getting worse and worse. One night, John decided to end it all, and swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills. Luckily Mycroft had installed cameras, so the paramedics got to him in time. After that, John seemed determined that he would take his own life on way or another. He tried dozens of methods; pills, cutting, drinking himself to death, strangling himself, drowning himself, and even hanging himself all to no avail. Mycroft now had cameras and wire taps watching every inch of 221b Baker Street. John didn't understand why they just wouldn't let him die, but he knew if he didn't stop, he would be locked up in a padded room somewhere. John was a patient man though. He was willing to wait, and let the situation die down a bit. When it seemed like enough time had passed, he pulled out his gun. He loaded one bullet into the chamber. "How's about a little game of Russian Roulette John?" he said to himself. He sat down in his arm chair, staring at the empty one across from him. Without looking, he spun the chamber, and placed the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Nothing. By this time, Mycroft had already called Lestrade. John pulled the trigger again. Nothing. Lestrade burst into the flat just as John was about to pull the trigger a third time. He had to pry the gun from John's hand. Lestrade knelt down in front of him. "Why John? Why keep doing this to yourself?"

John looked at Lestrade and smiled, a dead, lifeless smile. "Why not? What do I have to lose?" He then looked past Lestrade, at the chair. Sherlock's chair, just thinking of how it would never again hold that wonderful, mad, and brilliant genius.

Lestrade sighed shaking his head. He got up and walked out of the flat, his shoulders slumped in worry and concern for his friend. "Why Sherlock? Why did you have to go and jump off that bloody roof." Lestrade thought bitterly.

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Months passed, and John didn't try to kill himself again. It was obvious no one was going to let him die. Instead he started to eat again, at least a little more than he had been. He went shopping for groceries, and talked to people. He even went out with his mates to the pub. John was miserable, but he put on an act and pretended everything was fine. That's what everyone wanted from him anyways, wasn't it? For him to move on and start living life again? "Your wish is my command." he muttered under his breath.

John limped up the stairs with an armful of groceries. He thought he smelled chemicals from one of Sherlock's various experiments. John's mind was just playing another cruel joke on him. His mind insisted on torturing him, day and night. He walked into the flat about to go make some tea, and froze. Standing in the kitchen was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

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**I hope everyone likes it so far. Please review. I would love to know what everyone thinks of it. I will try and update as soon as I can.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to everyone who has followed and favorited this story. It truly means a lot to me. I am so so sorry for not posting this sooner. I have been working on a research paper and science fair project all week, so I haven't had much time to write. I hope you like this chapter. Reviews are always appreciated.**

_John limped up the stairs with an armful of groceries. He thought he smelled chemicals from one of Sherlock's various experiments. John's mind was just playing another cruel joke on him. His mind insisted on torturing him, day and night. He walked into the flat about to go make some tea, and froze. Standing in the kitchen was none other than Sherlock Holmes_.

Sherlock had been waiting for John the past three hours. He became bored after the first 20 minutes, so he had started up a small experiment, which he heartlessly abandoned when John entered the flat. "Hello, John." he said, smiling a bit at the sight of his best friend.

John just stared in utter shock. How could Sherlock be standing so very alive in the middle of the kitchen. Sherlock was dead. John felt his legs trembling underneath him. He would have fallen except for the fact that his cane, which he had to begin to use soon after Sherlock had "died," kept him on his feet. His mind was spinning. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock walked up to John, never breaking their eye contact. The doctor had aged, more than he should in only a year. He felt something break a little bit inside him when he saw the cane in John's hand. "John. I know that this is going to be hard to explain, but I need you to hear me out. I didn't die from that fall, but I had to make it seem as though a did. I know how badly this must have hurt you. I am so so sorry." he said quietly. He tried putting a hand on John's shoulder, but he jerked back at the contact.

Anger like John had not felt in years surged up in John. "Sorry? For what? Making me watch you jump off a roof? For making me believe that you had died? Sherlock do you have any idea what that put me through? Can you even imagine how much pain I have been in? Do you know how often I have wanted to kill myself? Do you know how many time I tried? I didn't see the point to life anymore Sherlock! You were my best friend, and you just abandoned me! I would have helped you, you know. You didn't have to jump off that bloody roof! So don't tell me that you're sorry. Don't tell me that you know how badly this hurts. You have no idea Sherlock! You don't feel, remember? The self proclaimed sociopath who cannot understand sentiment. You cannot possibly know how I feel. " He spat the words at Sherlock, his voice rising with every word. Anger glinted in his eyes.

Sherlock had expected this reaction from John. He had not, however, expected his own response to John's anger. The man who claimed not to have a heart, and who scoffed at sentiment, was ashamed. Even worse, that so called none-existent heart hurt. It was insane that John had this kind of effect on his emotions. He opened his mouth to say something, but no works came. He cleared his throat and looked away for a moment before he tried speaking again. Finally he found his voice. "I will tell you everything, I promise." he said. "How about you make some tea, then we can sit down and talk about this?" Sherlock asked carefully. He needed John to know why he had done what he did, but he didn't want to push him.

Sherlock looked at John with calculating eyes, analyzing every aspect of the man. The way he was leaning on his cane meant that the limp had returned. The cane itself looked worn, so he had been using it since right after the fall. There were tremors in his hands. His hair was greyer, and he had more wrinkles on his face. He had deep circles under his eyes that looked like bruises. It looked as though he hadn't slept at all since Sherlock had left. So, he was having nightmares again. Horrible one at that. He was so thin. So, he hadn't been eating for long periods of time. Sherlock looked back into John's eyes. There was something off. Aside from the look of anger they held at the moment, they looked dead. John had been broken.

Sherlock hated himself for having done this to John. It hurt see him this way. His brave army doctor, reduced to this. Sherlock felt sick knowing that he was responsible. He had known that John was doing badly, due to Mycroft keeping him updated, but it was so much worse in person. From what he saw, and from what John had said, Sherlock knew Mycroft had not told him everything. John had harmed himself? Had tried to kill himself? Why had he not been told? What John had said was true, he did not understand sentiment, but when he looked at John in this condition, his heart ached. If only John would let him explain. He knew he would have to take this slowly.

Without responding to Sherlock, John started to make some tea. His mind was reeling with anger and questions. He was furious about how Sherlock had just walked back in, apparently back from the dead, and then presumed to know how John felt. He looked over at Sherlock to see him standing near next to his armchair. He looked Sherlock over. The cloths he was wearing were worn and dirty. Sherlock had always been skinny, but even through the cloths John could see that Sherlock had lost a significant amount of weight. His clothes fit him to loosely. His cheek bones were even more prominent then they used to be. He had deep bruise looking circles under his eyes, similar to mine, John thought. He may not be the world's only consulting detective, but he can tell when someone is torturing themselves. Maybe he did have some idea, but that wasn't the point. If Sherlock hadn't "committed suicide," then John wouldn't be in this situation at all.

He finished making the tea, and carried it to his armchair and handed Sherlock his. They both sat quietly for a while, glancing at one another, and then just as quickly looked away. Sherlock was the first to break the silence. "I said I'd tell you everything, but I am unsure of where to begin." he said quietly.

"How about you start with why you jumped off that bloody roof." John spoke quietly, but the anger was plain in this voice.

"John listen, I never wanted to jump, but I didn't have a choice in the matter. I wasn't alone on that roof. Moriarty was there. He wanted me to jump, but I wasn't just going to do that. He then told me that he would kill everyone I cared about if I didn't jump. He had three gunmen ready to kill Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you. However, I deduced that as long as he was alive I could make him call off his men. Before I could do anything, he shot himself in the head. I was not going to let Moriarty hurt you, so I jumped.

"So why didn't you come back? After you jumped, why didn't you come back?" John asked calmly, a little of the anger subsiding.

"I had to bring down Moriarty's web. I have spent the past year and a half finding everyone that worked for Moriarty and silencing them. I wanted to come back John, but if I had, you would be dead right now. I was protecting you. I hope one day you will be able to forgive me." I hope one day I'll be able to forgive myself, Sherlock thought to himself.

John sighed, and took a few calming breaths before speaking. "Sherlock, I...I need time to process all of this. I need time to think." John got up from his chair, grabbed his cane, and walked towards the stairs. He turned around so that he was looking Sherlock's direction. "I understand that you were trying to protect me by jumping, but I can't just forgive you for all the pain you caused me, not yet anyway. Just give me some time." John again started for the stairs, but stopped and in barely a whisper said, "Will you still be here in the morning?"

"I'll be here." Sherlock said quietly.

John went upstairs and fell onto his bed, utterly exhausted. After a few hours John woke up from a horrible nightmare. His voice was raw and sore from screaming. John heard the soft sound of a violin being played downstairs. John tried to slow his heartbeat down as he listened to the bitter sweet music being played downstairs. The playing continued, and John eventually fell back asleep, a slight smile on his face. For the first time in a year and a half, he slept through the rest of the night.

**Like it? Hate it? Thoughts? I'd like to know how you felt about this chapter. Thanks. :D**


	3. Chapter 3

I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry! I am a terrible person. You probably all hate me. But please before you burn my heart out, let me explain. I have had science fairs, scholars bowl competitions, science team competitions, choir and band practices, and then just general school work. Then when I actually had time to write, I just couldn't seen to get the words down on the page. I know I am a horrible person. If anyone out there is still wanting to read this after all this time thank you. I promise I will not go this long without posting again. I will make it up to you somehow, I promise. As always reviews are always welcome. I take any and all criticism, so if you hate it, love it, or would just like to comment on it please do so. I love feed back. Thank you to everyone who has already followed and favorited this story, and a very special thanks to **memories. of** **.rain** and**Serenityofthematrix **for the reviews.

Enjoy. :

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John woke up the next morning feeling strangely rested. He remembered having that bloody nightmare again, but there was something else. He had dreamt that Sherlock was alive, and had come back home. That didn't seem right though. It wasn't like any dream he's had before...OH! The memories of the night before came flooding back to him. John sat up and got out of bed, grabbed his cane, and limped as fast as he could down the stairs

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair. He had cleaned himself up. He was now wearing one of his old suits, which was now too loose on him. He looked up immediately at the sound of John coming down the stairs. Sherlock looked John over with those calculating eyes. Relief was clear on John's face. He must have thought that last night was just a dream, and was checking to make sure, judging by the lack of clothing. All John was wearing was his pants. Sherlock studied the image and stored it in his Mind Palace. "Good morning John."

"You...you're really here. I mean, you're still here?"

Sherlock smirked a little. "Yes, obviously."

John was suddenly very aware that he was practically naked in the middle of his flat, in front of his recently returned-from-the-dead flat mate. "Okay. Well that's good. I'm just going to..." John turned around and limped back up the stairs without finishing his sentence.

John returned a few minutes later, now fully clothed, limped to the kitchen. "Tea?" he called to Sherlock, who was still sitting in his armchair, his eyes had a far off look in them. Sherlock didn't respond. John sighed, and made tea for both of them anyway.

John walked over to Sherlock, handed him his tea, which he took without looking. John walked back to the kitchen to grad his own and then walked to his own chair, and sat down. The silence that surrounded them was not a comfortable one, at least, not to John. He had so many questions, and for a year and a half the only answer he had was silence. Now the answers to all those questions sat across from him, obviously thinking of something he found important. Sherlock had never been one to waste his time or skill on trivial matters. The silence began to feel as though it was pressing down upon him. His heart was racing and his breath was coming in pants. Minute after agonizing minute passed by. Finally it became too much.

"I'm sorry. I can't stand this anymore Sherlock!" John all but shouted, completely shattering the awful silence.

Sherlock was startled by the sudden outburst. "Can't stand what anymore?"

"This silence. For a year and a half, all I've heard is silence. It drove me mad Sherlock! It killed me a little more each day. There were no explosions when an experiment went wrong. There was no violin playing at three in the morning. There was no insults being cast at anything or anyone. There was no one shooting the walls because they were bored. There were no brilliant deductions being made. There was nothing but silence. That cold unforgiving silence."

Sherlock was unsure of how to respond to this,

"John, I..."

"It's fine Sherlock. I understand now why you did it. Well most of it." John said, his mind turning to the one thing he had never been able to figure out. He refocused on Sherlock. John asked in a near inaudible whisper, "Why did you say those things?"

"What things?" Sherlock asked, though he knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Before you ju..." John had to stop for a moment. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "When you phoned me, you told me that you invented Moriarty. That you were a _fake_. Why?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment before answering. "I thought that maybe if I made you doubt me, if you thought I had lied, you would move on faster.

John let out a stiff laugh. "You thought I would move on faster? Seriously Sherlock? Did you honestly think that one call would erase everything I had seen you do? Erase everything you were? Did you honestly think that would work?

"I had hoped." Sherlock sighed. "John, I..."

John held up his hand silencing whatever Sherlock was about to say. "No Sherlock. I want you to listen for a moment. You heard me wake up screaming last night, right?" It wasn't really a question. John knew Sherlock had heard him. Heck, the whole street probably had.

Sherlock just nodded, not looking at John.

"I was having a nightmare. Do you know what it was?"

"The war?" Sherlock said almost hopefully.

"No, it wasn't the war. It was you. You saying all those bloody lies before you jumped. Me trying to convince you to come down. You jumping off that roof. Me not being able to save you. Your blood on the pavement. Your blood in your hair. Your blood on my hands." John took a shaky breath. "Sometimes the nightmare is a bit different though. Sometimes instead of you saying all of those horrible lies, you are telling me how worthless I am and how I was never good enough to be your friend, and that it was my fault that you were doing this. That particular one doesn't happen often, but I still have it from time to time."

"That is what I see every time I close my eyes Sherlock. Every night since you have been gone. You intention may have been different, but it backfired..."

John was cut off by Sherlock jumping out of his chair and hugging him tightly. "I'm so sorry John."

"I never would have done any of it if I had known this would happen to you. Why didn't they just tell me the truth?" Sherlock let go of John and started pacing the room. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

"What are you talking about? Tell you the truth about what?"

Sherlock sighed and sat back down in his chair, his head in his hands.

A few minutes later he looked up at John.

"Mycroft was keeping an eye on you, and then giving me reports of how you were. For the first few months he said you were doing pretty badly. After a while, however, he said you were getting better. You weren't happy, but you were coping. He said that you were getting better, and I bloody believed him!

Suddenly Sherlock was on the edge of his seat, his eyes were pleading, hoping John would understand.

"John I swear to you, I didn't know. I thought you were doing better. I never would have stayed away if I had known that..."

At that moment Sherlock broke down. He fell onto his knees sobbing. His hands were clutching the front of John's jumper.

"Oh John I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. I swear I didn't know. God, I'm sorry John." Sherlock sobbed out.

Sherlock felt arms wrap around him. He looked up in surprise. He had expected to be shunned, not soothed.

John was rubbing Sherlock's back, trying to calm him down some. "Shh, it's alright Sherlock, it's alright. Calm down. Everything is fine now Sherlock, just calm down." John whispered into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock lifted his head to look at John. "No it's not John. You tried to harm yourself. To kill yourself. Because of me!" Sherlock broke down sobbing again.

John put his hands on either side of Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, it's okay. It's fine. I'm alive, and so are you."

Sherlock looked at John for a moment, then leaned in and kissed him.

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**As always please review, and if you have any ideas on where you would like to see this go, please let me know. I promise it won't be a month until I post again. Again I am very sorry for the long wait. **


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